


Recruitment Techniques Aren't Always in the Handbook

by florahart



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (one-sidedly anyway), First Meeting, M/M, Unknown Identity, Unsafe Sex, Urgent Sex, basically there is no justification except porn here, flexible Clint Barton is flexible, really I'm not kidding about the porn, recruiting Clint into SHIELD, utter porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 15:21:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10311191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/florahart/pseuds/florahart
Summary: Looking for the elusive Hawkeye is hard, especially when SHIELD has no actual clear photos of him.  And while Phil's between frustrating days of looking and an unexpected hookup opportunity comes along, he is damn well going to take it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is effectively a story I made up to entertain myself while I was lying in bed being not-asleep the other night. No beta besides my eyeballs, so if you see typos and would like to tell me about them, you are welcome to.

Phil dropped into the seat and ordered a bottle of whatever was cold – he wasn’t all that much of a beer man in the first place, but it looked to be what everyone here was drinking and after a frustrating day at the end of a long and deeply annoying week, all he wanted was to stare with minimal attention to the ballgame on the big TV over the bar and sip at a bottle for a little while. 

He saw someone approaching from the right, but it wasn’t a threat, just someone else coming up to grab the next stool. Younger than him. Hot. Blond. Broad-shouldered. Round-faced. Rugged-looking, and strong. “Big Yankees fan?” the guy asked.

“Not really,” Phil said. “That is, it’s the team I followed as a kid, largely because you could get their games from pretty much anywhere. You?”

“Same.” 

“Travel a lot?”

“You could say. I guess that must’ve been true for you too?”

“Family vacations. Every summer. In a station wagon to visit the national parks. Lots of motels, very few libraries.” Which was true; Phil’s biggest complaint as a kid had been that they’d never brought enough to read, and motel TV in the seventies hadn’t exactly been enough to engage his brain. 

“Libraries?”

“Hey, a ten-year old can only think Mount Rushmore is cool a few times.”

“Good point. And so you watched Yankees games?”

“Listened, mostly.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, you asked.”

The guy tipped his beer up and stared at the game with Phil for a few more minutes, then glanced back over. “Really if I’m gonna watch a game, though, I’d rather do it as a background for something else, wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t think that’s actually watching a game.”

“Depends on the something else!” The guy grinned and gave a little wink. “I mean, you can always stop fucking to watch the replay if something amazing happens, right?”

Phil blinked. 

Then he surreptitiously looked around the bar again. Lots of beer, lots of well-worn workboots and jeans. Hats of the various sorts worn in the kind of quiet rural area he’d spent the day in trying to figure out where the hell his quarry had gone to ground. And, all right, not that it was _impossible_ that there was one gay bar in this half of the state, but the vibe was really not that. 

He took another pull on his beer. “Something amazing.”

“Like a grand slam or something.”

“Is worth stopping--”

“Well, I mean, unless you’re really into the sex.” He nodded at the TV. “They’re up by 8, though, so you’re probably right. We’d be better off focusing on the matter at hand.”

“All right, so I’ve had a long day, and maybe I’m seeing things that aren’t there, but it seems like that might’ve been a proposition.”

“I don’t know what else it would have been. Wanna get out of here?”

Phil thought about that for a few seconds, then shrugged. Why not? Sure, he was basically on the clock because that’s how fieldwork _works_ , but it was just past dark on an April Tuesday an hour south of Spokane; what else was he going to get done for the night?

He raised a hand for the bill, settled up for both of them, and followed his new friend outside. “I’m up the road half a mile,” he said, gesturing vaguely. 

“Yeah, I’m that way.” The guy pointed the other direction. “Your call, but my room’s pretty shitty. Just in town for a couple of days, so I didn’t exactly spring for the Motel 6.”

Phil nodded. “My place it is.” He unlocked his car and got in, then frowned and leaned across to unlock the other door. “No car?”

“I’m on foot tonight.”

“All right, come on.” Phil ignored the part of his brain trying to do a threat assessment. Stranger, in Phil’s car and next in his room, no names... okay, probably there were reasons this was a terrible idea, but it wasn’t like he was a stranger to self-defense, and he could, if he had to, call in back-up very quickly. He told his brain to fuck off and pulled out onto the road. “I’m Frank.”

“Uh. Clay.” The little stammer was weird, but then, Phil figured maybe he hadn't expected to get a name?

It really was only half a mile. A minute of drive time, and Phil pulled up to the, in fact, Motel 6 and led the way up the rickety steps to the room on the far end, upper level.

Clay followed him in the door, closed it behind them, and grinned again. “You wanna turn on the game?”

Phil toed off his shoes. “Eight-run lead? No way they’ve lost the lead this quick. We’ve got time.”

“Awesome.” And then, quickly enough to startle Phil, which was impressive, Clay was up in his space, pushing his ugly flannel shirt off and yanking up his t-shirt.

Phil tugged on Clay’s shirt as well, then sighed as Clay backed off to rip it off over his head. And then he was back, his teeth on Phil’s lip, calloused strong hands down the back of his soft, not-well-fitting jeans, and Phil decided that actually, sighing involved breathing and he really didn’t need to do any more of that. Christ. He let Clay manhandle him for a couple of minutes, then pulled back, finally unbuckling the frankly ridiculous buckle of Clay’s belt and getting his (much more closely-fitting, he noted) jeans open and out of the way. 

Clay groaned as Phil reached in, as he found Clay’s cock fit nicely in his palm, and now _Phil_ grinned, because making Clay groan was definitely an improvement to his day, and he wanted to do it again. He dropped down slowly to his knees, looked up just long enough to see naked want in Clay’s face, and went to work on his cock. 

Clay, because apparently he was turning out to be perfect, let Phil go to it for maybe fifteen seconds, just long enough to get a good taste, then surged forward, pushing his cockhead into Phil’s throat hard.

He backed off long enough to growl, “okay?” (and yes, it was _very okay_ ), and then he went back to it, crowding Phil back to the wall he’d all but forgotten existed and fucking his mouth just exactly hard enough to make Phil’s eyes water, make his nostrils flare with trying to take in enough air, make his hands clutch for something to grab that wasn’t there. Phil whined and finally grabbed his own dick, squeezing his balls because yeah, he _could_ come from this, but he didn’t think he wanted to quite yet. 

Clay slowed after another moment and pulled away, cock slick and wet with spit and the pre-come Phil could taste in the back of his throat. “Yeah, but this is no fair,” he said. 

“What, no. No, this is _great_ ,” Phil said.

“Yeah, but when do _I_ get a taste?” Clay pulled Phil upright and went right back to manhandling him, dropping him into the room’s single arm chair and reaching down to drag one rough fingertip up the underside of Phil’s shaft. Phil shuddered, and then – what the _fuck_ – Clay turned around and bent over backwards, hands to the floor between Phil’s feet. He landed with his head between Phil’s thighs and kicked up and over, feet still tangled in his jeans, to put his dick right back in Phil’s mouth.

Phil was too busy wondering who the hell _did that_ to react immediately, and then Clay was back to fucking the shit out of his mouth, licking and sucking at Phil’s balls and nosing around them as he licked the base of Phil’s shaft.

He did free his mouth after a minute to ask, “Hey, can I come in you?”

Phil’s dick jerked at the question and he nodded, and Clay went back to licking.

Phil came when Clay did, spurting onto his bare chest and chin and still trying to even understand the geometry of the situation when Clay kissed his inner thigh and flipped himself back upright. 

“So, at first I didn’t think you were serious,” he said after a second, flopping down on the bed opposite the chair and casually wiping come off his chin. “But shit, G-man, if I’d thought this would happen if I came in out of the cold I’d have let you catch me _years_ ago.”

He licked his fingers and smeared the rest of the mess down his throat and chest.

Phil closed his eyes as the obvious clues came together. The callouses. The shoulders. The flexibility. They’d never, not once, gotten a clear face picture, but this was obviously “Clint Barton. Fuck.” His voice sounded like it should, what with the beating his uvula had just taken, and he winced at the gravelly growl of it and tried to pretend he was not disarmed, disrobed and uncharacteristically discombobulated. Damn it.

‘Clay’ frowned. “Wait, you actually did not... okay shit, sorry. See, okay, I was hitting on you because I figured it would get me in the room, and then like, the name, and you seemed to want to, um. And like, I figured... hmm.” Phil looked up and he was _blushing_. “Did I just fuck this up? Because I have a special talent for--”

“Shut up.” Phil cleared his throat then untangled his feet from his jeans and went to get a glass of water, holding up a finger. “Don’t move, and shut up.”

When he came back, he drank the water, then set the glass on the side table next to the chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Yes, I did want. No, I didn’t know. Yes, I was looking for you but you’re really fucking good at staying clear of cameras so the only real picture I have is your first grade one. I don’t know whether you fucked anything up because I don’t know what you were trying to achieve.”

“What? I said! I wanted to let you catch me, and like, before now I was doing pretty good as a free agent but there are reasons why that’s kind of a pain in the ass and there’s this thing where I’ve gotten messages a few times where it seemed like it was that you SHIELD guys maybe wanted to recruit me not kill me? And I’m hoping that was right because I don’t really want to die in a Motel 6 but also I’m hoping this fucking thing isn’t off the table if I do come in, like is there a rule? Because I mean, that was awesome and like--”

Phil pressed his lips together and waited for Barton to wind down. “We do,” he finally interrupted. “Want to recruit you. It’s what I’m here for – SHIELD does not, as a rule, spend a lot of time in the Palouse. The fucking is a problem because orgasm is not considered an appropriate recruitment technique. However, my throat hurts and I don’t really want to have a conversation about this right now, so: I can call in and have someone come get you, or--”

“No, wait, can I just, maybe you can come with?”

“With a freshly fucked throat and a hickey on my thigh? I don’t think so. As I was saying, or, if your goal is actually to come in, we can do that tomorrow.”

“Yes that one please.”

Phil dug his phone out of his pocket and snapped a photo of Clint Barton, sometimes known as Hawkeye, which he saved to the cloud, then he turned off his phone. “If you leave, I will find you again and next time, there will be handcuffs.”

“Kinky.”

“Seriously.”

Barton kicked off his jeans, still around his ankles, and leaned over to lie down on the bed. “Meanwhile, more fucking?”

Phil went and got another glass of water, then brushed his teeth, then considered whether or how much it was a terrible idea to crawl naked into bed with a new recruit. But, given that that ship had sailed (to Madagascar and back, twice), the reasons against were silly, and the reasons for seemed pretty great. Either way, the paperwork was going to be a hassle.

“You’re going to be a pain in my ass, aren’t you?” he finally said, pulling back the blankets and getting in the other side of the bed. 

Barton shrugged. “Probably. But I'll try to be worth it."


End file.
